A Father's Sacrifice
by Shutterbug5269
Summary: My history of Castle's father. I have taken the liberty of giving him a name.


**A Father's Sacrifice**

**15 April, 1968 01:30 hours, somewhere in North Vietnam**

Chief Petty Officer Richard Alexander Webb USN lay prone behind a small mound of earth twenty yards from the wire of a small POW camp, the target of an operation three months in the making. It was probably the most righteous operation he had taken part in since joining 3rd SOG a year ago, and he had been with the operation since the planning stage. He'd been scheduled to rotate home at the end of his third tour in Vietnam, but had delayed his departure to assume operational command of this mission in-country. He was observing the activity along the barbed wire near the tower on the corner nearest him as he had been for the last four nights since their arrival here.

They had infiltrated by submarine (namely the USS Skate) eight days ago. Two hours ago they had received the revised "go mission" order, and the timetable was ticking down to zero hour. He tapped the man next to him and gave the hand signal to fix bayonets, then pulled his own darkened blade slowly from its scabbard on his web gear and snapped it to the barrel on his carbinized M-16. He gave the signal to lock and load, and they all pulled back slowly on the charging levers of their weapons. As each man in the element finished his task, their eyes expectantly turned to him. He raised his hand slightly, with three fingers up, then two, then one then snapped the hand down and pointed forward. "Action commenced" he thought to himself, as he and his men belly crawled the last twenty yards to the fence line . Right on schedule, just as they'd rehearsed it three weeks ago, the grenadiers opened up with their M-79 grenade launchers and the tops of both towers exploded silencing forever the machine gunners inside before they could react. Following close behind, another set of men opened up with LAW rockets armed with white phosphorus warheads into the guard barracks roasting the sleeping guards inside alive in white fire. His men cut the wire and they entered, firing short bursts from their rifles to silence the remaining guards. Secrecy had been this camp's primary defense, and its guard compliment had been rather small. No quarter was offered or given.

Within twenty seconds the camp once again fell silent as Chief Webb's element converged with the second element tasked with the opposite corner of the camp as they both neared the prison cells in the center. As his men stacked up behind him, Webb kicked in the door and they entered, fanning out to cover each corner of the building. After each man had covered his sector and called out "clear", they checked each cell and found that the small cell block was instead a charnal house. The lone prisoner in each of the 15 occupied cells had either been shot in the back of the head, or their throat had been slit. Their wide open eyes looked at nothing in silent accusation. Webb stood there for a moment in shocked silence then shouted "We've been burned! Everybody out! NOW!" No sooner had all of them cleared the tree line, an artillery and mortar bombardment began. Obliterating the camp and everything in it.

On the helicopter, during the long flight to the USS Ranger not a word was spoken. Everyone on board sat with their heads hung . What was to be one of the most righteous of missions for any Spec warfare unit, namely POW extraction, had become a complete disaster. Mission: failure. CPO Webb looked down at the carbine he clutched in his hands so hard his knuckles were white. Cold, unfeeling rage burned in his heart. Had he not accelerated the operation timetable by an hour, the bombardment would have taken place just as they were to enter the camp. This wasn't a freak accident, The mission had been _deliberately _burned_. _Somehow, some way, he was going to find the sons of bitches who who burned them, and make them pay. Pay for nearly killing everyone under his command that night. Pay for the lives of fifteen men who would now never make it home. Pay for committing treason in a time of war for which there was only one punishment. Death.

**Two weeks later.**

Richard Webb had only been for a few days. He felt empty and lost. He had come home to a hero's reception in Auburn, NY. The local VFW post commander had met him at the train station in Syracuse. He felt like anything but a hero inside though. His last mission in Vietnam had been a complete failure, but the Navy had seen fit to promote him anyway. The shiny new lieutenant's bars on his collar and their corresponding shoulder boards seemed to silently mock him whenever he put his uniform on. He'd been granted a month's furlough when it was discovered that his father had passed away while he was in-country. A decorated Marine in WWII, he had rated an honor guard, and a rifle detail. The earnest Sergeant who handed him his father's folded flag had saluted him smartly. He vaguely remembered saluting him back. One more twist of cruel fate turning against him.

May 30th 1968

As he could no longer stand to be cooped up in the empty house on Sherman Drive by himself, he accepted a squad mate's offer to drive out to Manhattan to take in a show and see the sights. The two of them hit the town with their undress whites on and were comped a ticket to see an off Broadway play in Midtown by the elderly theater owner who proudly showed them his navy tattoo and waved them inside. Webb watched captivated by the lovely redheaded lead actress. He was instantly smitten. He had to meet her.

Though some of the people backstage shot him contemptuous looks, the beautiful redhead he'd seen onstage, Martha Rodgers practically beamed at him as he presented her with the dozen roses he had ducked out before the curtain call to purchase. Ten minutes later, she was walking out the door on his arm. It was love at first sight. The rest of the week was a blur, culminating in a night of passion that left a lasting impression on him. He would remember it with both fondness and deep regret for the rest of his days.

July 12th, 1992.

The operation in Manhattan had been blown. Not by a leak, not by a mole, but by two dirty, greedy cops and a clueless rookie who'd made a reputation kidnapping mobsters. Webb was now known mostly in the intelligence community as "Archangel" who now lead a covert intelligence group dedicated to finding and eliminating leaks in US intelligence by any means necessary. Technically he didn't exist. He slammed the phone receiver down in it's cradle and exclaimed, "Damn!" Then picked it up again and dialed another number. "Smith, get a cleaner on the Armen op, it's been compromised. I need it sanitized ASAP." After hearing the click then the dial tone, he muttered to himself "Damn, Damn, Damn."

October 9th, 1993 1:30 AM

It was quiet in the nursery in Cedar Sinai Hospital. A man in his mid forties wearing doctor's scrubs and a lab coat slipped noiselessly into the room. He checked the leg bands on several newborn female infants before finding the one he sought. The bold type on the band around her ankle stated her name was Alexis Castle. Webb gently picked her up, cradled her in his arms and cooed at the tiny life in his hands. After a moment of this she opened her tiny blue eyes, but didn't cry out. "Hello, Alexis, welcome to the world." Tears of joy and regret welled in his eyes as he continued, "I'm your granddad. It pains me more than you will ever know that, like your father, you will probably never know me. Just know that grandpa loves you, your father, and your grandmother very much, and what he's doing will hopefully make this world a better place for you to grow up in." The last time he had snuck into a hospital like this had been the day his son, Richard Alexander Rodgers had been born. He remembered being surprised when the notice reached him in April of 1969. He had just come back from an operation, and it had been on his bunk. He had half expected Martha to have thrown the card (with only a phone number on it) he had pressed into her hands in the trash when he told her he had to go, and probably would never be back. He told her that he loved her, and if she needed anything at all to call that number. She had since done so very rarely. He had snuck into this very nursery and held his son in his hands shortly after he was born. He hummed a lullaby rocking Alexis back to sleep, placed her back in the cradle where he'd found her, and after touching her face one final time, slipped quietly out the door.

Summer, 1999

An idealistic civil rights lawyer, named Johanna Beckett had been poking around in the Armen case. Webb had dispatched Smith to explain to Mr. Pulgotti how revealing what he knew about the facts in the case would be detrimental to his personal safety. Shortly before he had arrived to deliver that message, though the lawyer had been brutally murdered, and the detective who had been investigating that murder had inexplicably soft-pedaled it. Webb looked up the file, yes, Detective Raglan was one of the three dirty cops who had stumbled on the operation a few years ago. The asset he'd sent to clean it up had never returned nor had he been heard from since. Upon further perusal of the file he noted that the rookie cop, Roy Montgomery had cut ties with the other two and had inexplicably turned himself around, said notation brought a small smile to Webb's face.

He dialed a number on his phone. When the line opened on the other end he said, "Smith, I _never_ authorized wet work. Find out who authorized this, _I want his head on a plate_." When he got the expected "Yes sir" from the other end he added, "See what we can do for this Roy Montgomery and that lawyer's family, though. Do it quietly." He would have to oversee this operation himself. It meant that he would have to find somebody else to shepherd his son on his research tour of the CIA. He'd cleared his schedule and been looking forward to it for weeks. He closed the line with Smith, and dialed his secretary. "Get me Sophia Turner at CIA, I would like to speak with her at her earliest convenience."

May 18th, 2011

Webb's phone rang late in the day. It was Smith. He had received a package in the mail from a Captain Roy Montgomery in reference to the murder of the civil rights lawyer all those years ago. There were details in the file that were difficult to believe, but there they were in black and white. The very man he had sent to clean up the failed op that had resulted in the death of an undercover agent had been the mysterious figure known as "The Dragon" all along. "The son of a bitch had even tapped assets from my department!" he shouted into the phone at him. It had come too late to prevent the shooting of Detective Katherine Beckett, the lawyer's daughter from being shot by a very well-trained sniper. The realization that she had been standing _right next to his son_ was not lost on him. After he collected himself, he said in a very careful tone, "Smith, you'll need to contact my son directly at some point. If he cares at all for this woman, he needs to find a way to keep her out of this until I can sort things out. She may prove...useful later if we need a motivated party should wetwork become necessary. Until then put the word out to all of our assets, anyone who targets this Detective Beckett, Richard Castle or his family will be sanctioned with extreme prejudice." After he hung up, he said out loud, "Arrogant son of a bitch, chew on that for a while." One day he would have to have a word or two with this "Dragon" and let him know that going off the reservation was not...advisable.

**Epilogue: Present Day**

4:30 AM

Richard Castle stood looking out the window of his loft down at the street. A very nondescript looking black van was parked across from the building. He had arisen in the middle of the night. Awakened by the itching from from the scars of his recent gunshot injury, he had come out to get a glass of water from the kitchen. His writer's imagination dreamed up all sorts of scenarios about the van and it's occupants until a warm hand on his shoulder got his attention. "Rick, are you all right?" He pulled Kate Beckett closer, until she was wrapped in his embrace, "I'm fine, Kate, it's nothing, the scars are just itching a bit is all, I didn't mean to wake you." She kissed him on the cheek and asked, "What are you looking at?" He looked down at the beautiful woman on his arm and replied, "Nothing, let's go back to bed."

In her room, Martha Rodgers sat at her vanity looking at a yellowed business card with nothing but a phone number printed on it. In faded pencil, she had written "Richard" with a heart around it. Her heart inexplicably filled with sorrow at this faded memento. The only one she had of the greatest love of her life. Wondering if she had done the right thing calling the number on it. A single tear coursing its way down her cheek.

The End.


End file.
